


Contract: The Smiling Sister

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Magic, Mind Manipulation, Monsters, Witcher Contract
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Geralt takes on an unusual contract and finding the source might prove just as difficult as deciding what to do about it.





	Contract: The Smiling Sister

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxfordRoulette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordRoulette/gifts).



> OxfordRoulette, you really gave me carte blanche with your request for this fandom, and I loved being able to craft a new Contract for our favorite Witcher to fulfill. I hope you don't mind that I got a bit inventive with the 'enemy' in this! Also, since there were multiple endings, romances, etc...to the game, and I don't know which you ended up with or prefer, I played a bit loose with the time setting & relationships. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> See end note for additional content warning.

“Well?”

Geralt studied his opponent warily; his eyes were half-narrowed yet he was otherwise still and predator silent. He’d gauged his enemy well enough to know that the man would not be able to stomach the taciturn quiet too much longer. Already the man’s glance was beginning to betray him, eyes slipping from boldly meeting Geralt’s down to his own hands and then back up.

Still, it wasn’t enough of a tell. Geralt waited for something more.

“Gods dammit, man. Aren’t you going to make your move?”

And still, Geralt wouldn’t be baited.

Finally, with a faint huff that might’ve gone unheard by someone with less sensitive hearing, his opponent gave himself away; his gaze dropped to the space between them, lingering for less than half a very telling thud of a heartbeat at one particular location before flicking back up to meet Geralt’s steely expression.

Geralt smirked. Well, on him it was a smirk. On another man’s face it might’ve looked a bit closer to a scowl.

“This what you’re waiting for?” Geralt asked, his hand flicking out in a quick, curt motion.

The card landed on the table between them, fluttering a moment before settling down in between its fellows.

There was another moment of that lingering silence and then it was broken by a sharp inhale, and a curse. “Bugger it. Shoulda known you’d throw a Scorch. Shoulda waited to put down that ploughin’ horn.”

The merchant peeled the two ‘burned’ ranged cards – enhanced to twenty points apiece by a Commander’s Horn – up from the weathered wood of the tavern table and set them in his discard pile. “You’re a ploughing mind-reader,” he grumbled, thumbing through his remaining three cards with a frown.

“Your turn,” was all that Geralt replied.

Cursing again, albeit under his breath, the Merchant threw down another ranged card. Doubled, it was worth eight. That still left Geralt with a comfortable lead.

Geralt weighed the likelihood of his opponent holding a Decoy, decided it was slim, and chose to lay down the last of his three spy cards (two of which had been played in the first round). Based on the Merchant’s cards so far, his Nilfguardian deck wasn’t all that impressive. Geralt assumed he had at least one or two weather nullifiers rounding out the remains of his hand; even if he could swap for the spy card and draw another two cards from his deck, he didn’t think it too big a risk.

Judging from the way the merchant scowled as Geralt padded his own hand with two more cards, he’d made a safe play. It was confirmed a moment later when the Merchant threw down a Biting Frost. It only had a three-point impact on his total, so Geralt didn’t bother to use his Leader’s special move to clear the effects. Instead, he played a Ballista siege card, bringing his total to thirty-four, over the Merchant’s paltry twelve.  

With a heavy sigh, the Merchant laid his final remaining card face down on the table – unplayable – and muttered an irritable, “Pass.”

“Think we agreed on fifty crowns,” Geralt said mildly, laying his own hand down indicating an end to the game. He’d taken both rounds.

Though the merchant cursed him again, he dug through a fat coin purse and counted out the gold coins, stacking them on top of Geralt’s spread of Gwent cards. “Aye, as we agreed. Though you’ll forgive me if I don’t thank you for the game.”

Geralt shrugged. It was no matter to him, although he doubted he’d be able to talk the man into buying a few of the wolf pelts that were weighing down his saddle bags now. He gathered up the crowns and his cards and then finished the last few swallows of his Redanian lager. He’d earned himself enough to restock provisions while he waited for the issuer of his current contract to arrive.

And help himself to another lager.

He’d completed the former – filling a satchel with enough dried fruits and meats and sundries to last him several days – and was working on the latter – swallowing down a hearty mouthful of beer – when the Barkeep jerked his chin toward the door. “That’s him,” the Barkeep said. “Man you’re looking for. Harreth. He’s the one in the green tunic.”

Nodding his thanks, Geralt set the nearly empty tankard on the bar and then turned to see a group of four men clustered near the door to the Inn. Three were gesturing and casting about, obviously trying to agree on a table, while the fourth - the one in green – stood apart from the others. Geralt crossed over to him.

“You Harreth?”

The man, Harreth, eyed him warily. “Who’re you?”

“Witcher. Here about that contract you posted in the Seven Cats.”

“Oh!” Harreth’s whole demeanor changed. “Yes, thank the gods.” He gave an odd, almost wary, glance to his companions and then waved for Geralt to follow him. “This way.” He hurried to the far corner of the tavern, to a small table wedged against the wall on two sides. Geralt saw the other men watch him go, but they just shook their heads and found their own table as far from Harreth as possible. Shrugging – it was none of his business – Geralt followed.

“I wasn’t sure… I mean, I wasn’t expecting anyone, I’ll be honest,” Harreth began even before Geralt had the chance to sit down in the remaining chair.

“Contract didn’t say much. What can you tell me?” He already had a bad feeling that he was going to get a whole lot of backstory. Guy seemed like a talker. Most of the time, all Geralt really need to know was what kind of monster he was dealing with, and where to find it. Rarely was it ever summed up so neatly.

“Right,” Harreth nodded. “Right, I’ll tell you what I know.” He fidgeted nervously. “You see, it’s my sister.”

“Missing?”

Harreth shook his head. “No. It’s not that. I mean, well… her husband is missing, yeah. But that’s not what I’m concerned about.”

“It’s not?” Geralt asked dryly.

“No.” Harreth’s head-shake was wilder, more emphatic. “He was a right bastard, that one. Took to usin’ his fists on Maisey. Poor lass.”

“And he’s missing?”

“Well yeah, like I said. But it’s not him I care about. It’s Maisey. And Berta.”

Biting back a sigh, Geralt asked, “Berta?”

Another eager nod. “Aye. My sister.”

“Thought Maisey was your sister?” Geralt said, aware of the rising strain in his voice, and doing little to temper it.

“Well, yeah. She is too. It’s both of ‘em ya see.”

That cleared things up slightly. But only slightly. He gave a curt little gesture that said (or perhaps threatened) ‘get on with it’ better than words could manage.

“Right, well, neither of them has been acting themselves of late. I think they’ve been… I don’t rightly know. Bespelled or cursed maybe?”

Now it was starting to get interesting. Geralt leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. That seemed to encourage Harreth away from the nervous babble; he focused more on exposition as he went on.

“It were about six weeks back. I hadn’t heard from Maisey in quite some time. And she’s usually keen to send a letter every few weeks. She just lives down on a bit o’ land outside Carsten. Do you know it?” He paused long enough for Geralt to nod. “Well, I got worried when I’d not gotten nothing from her. Not a letter or nothin’. So, I headed down to Carsten myself. I’d feared the worst, naturally; that Urich had finally done her in with those brutal fists o’ his.”

“This Urich was such a bastard then why…” Geralt let the question trail off. 

Harreth shook his head sadly. “Ah, she’s a stubborn one, that Maisey. First time I ever heard word of what Urich had been doin’, I told her I’d get some fellows and we’d deal with the ploughin’ bastard. But she’d have none of it. Said she loved him. Didn’t want to keep house without him. Urich was a handsome bloke, and he’d always ply her with flowers and sweet words after he’d roughed her up, and she thought he’d change.” He shrugged, his impotent frustration with it clear. “But nay. I get there, and I find Maisey diggin’ up vegetables in the garden. She’s smilin’ like it’s the happiest day she’s ever known. That’s when I find out that Urich is missing.”

“Could kind of understand why she was happy.”

“Oh, aye. That’s what I thought at first too. But when I asked Maisey about it, she acted like it were just a wee bit strange that she’d not seen her husband for more than a fortnight. And she didn’t seem to remember the way he used to beat on her. She was all smiles talkin’ about him. But none too worried that he’d gone missin’.”

Geralt had to agree; it sounded peculiar. Monster-related though? Harsh though it might be, he had to ask, “Sure she didn’t just snap? Maybe her husband leaving her was too much to take. Or, could be he addled her wits with one of his fists?”

Harreth ducked his head, shamefaced. “Aye, that’s what I thought at first too. Figured Urich did her some harm, and got scared off by what he’d done. But then Berta came by while I was visitin’.”

“Your other sister.”

“Aye. She’s the oldest of us. She and her husband Jory keep a farmstead few miles north of Carsten. Not far off that Vegelbud estate. My da’ used to work those lands, ya see. He’d earned himself some land and passed it on to each of his kids when he died.” He waved that away, realizing he’d started drifting. “Anyway, Berta and Jory arrive at Maisey’s house, and they’re as addled as she is! Berta’s normally a cold sort. Not unhappy, but serious like. But when she sees me there she’s all embraces and smiles and laughter. Jory as well, laughin’ like a loon. And he’s a bit of a dullard and quiet like. They was all actin’ like this was normal. Those two weren’t none concerned about Urich either.”

“And that’s all you know? That your sisters and a brother-in-law are acting out of character?” That wasn’t much to go on at all.

“I did learn one other thing. Dunno if it means somethin’ or not. See, both Berta and Maisey talked about goin’ near some ruins. I didn’t quite get the whole of the story, as I said, they weren’t remembering correct. But, I think Berta and Jory went lookin’ for Maisey durin’ that time she was missing. I’m left to wonder if they found her, and then whatever got to her got to them also.” He shrugged and then sat back in his chair and spread his hands. “So, will ya help me out.”

Geralt sat silent a moment, considering it. That last bit of detail got him thinking that perhaps there was something other than the mundane behind this. There _were_ ruins not far from Carsten; they’d been the hideout of the Sorceress Phillippa Eirhart. The last time Geralt had searched them, he’d found them empty of a sorceress, but plenty occupied by nekkers. Had something else moved in?

He didn’t give an answer; not yet. “What’re you looking for out of this? Head of some monster?”

Harreth leaned forward again, intent. “I just want some kinda proof. I mean, maybe _I’m_ the one that’s gone buggy. The lads you saw me come in with are startin’ to think so,” he admitted ruefully.

“That why you posted your notice at the Seven Cats, instead of here?” He lifted his hand in a quick gesture meant to take in not only the dimly lit tavern, but the whole of the town of Arette.

“Aye,” Harreth agreed. “Figured it’d keep the lads from the mill from mockin’ me even further. They think I’m a fool to be so worried over my sister smilin’.” He frowned and clenched a fist on top of the table. “Some answers. That’s what I need.” He slumped back once more. “I’m not after makin’ either of my sisters unhappy, but I need to know there’s no harm come to them. You understand?”

Geralt inclined his head briefly. “Can understand that.”

Before Geralt could say anymore, Harreth reached for something at his belt. He fumbled a moment and then tossed a coin pouch on the table, and it landed with a muffled clank. “There’s about forty crowns in there, and I’ve got nearly another two-hundred fifty saved up at home. That enough?”

Realizing that his curiosity over the mystery had already decided for him, Geralt picked up the purse, hefting it in his cupped hand. “It is.”

Harreth blew out a relieved but very noisy breath; a sound that was uncomfortably close to a sob.

Geralt ignored the emotional display and merely tucked the coins away. “Find you here when I’m done?”

“Aye,” Harreth agreed shakily, chin starting to wobble. “I’m here most evenings. You’ve my gratitude, Master Witcher.”

From Harreth’s expression, he wanted to say more… thank Geralt more profusely. Hell, Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised if he threw himself to his knees at Geralt’s feet, making even more of a scene. He could already hear whispers from some other patrons – unsurprisingly the men Harreth had arrived with, but others as well.

Pushing away from the table, Geralt stood. “Back in a few days, then.”

Luckily, Harreth just nodded eagerly, though his eyes were glistening.

Geralt left him and the tavern behind and stepped out into a sunny, spring afternoon. He glanced at the sky, gauging the time it would take to ride to Carsten – he’d arrive well before nightfall – and then whistled for Roach.

He’d left the horse tied to a post near the door to the Inn, so naturally the animal was nowhere in sight. Telltale hoofbeats caught Geralt’s ear almost immediately after the piercing whistle though, and he turned to watch Roach trot around the corner of the blacksmith’s shop that stood across the hardpacked dirt roadway. The sturdy-legged bay mare slowed to a walk and then stopped entirely about an arm’s length away.

“Don’t wanna know what you were up to, do I?” He patted the mare – who whickered in a suspiciously pleased tone – fondly on the withers and then swung into the saddle. “C’mon, Roach.” A slight tug of reins and the barest application of a bootheel, and the horse turned adroitly and then lurched into a canter in an effortless maneuver.

For all Roach’s tendency to wander, she was a fast, well-trained animal who responded to Geralt’s subtlest cues and had a smooth, easy-to-sit stride, no matter her gait. That made it easy enough to ignore the times she ended up stuck behind fences, or got easily spooked by wild dogs that she could’ve trampled beneath her hooves, or went wandering when he was sure he’d left her tied.

The miles passed easily, Geralt having urged the mare into a ground-eating gallop once they’d left signs of civilization behind. Occasionally they passed a farmstead or solitary cottage, and once they nearly ran down a merchant (who cursed them even as he dodged out of the way) but otherwise the blur of passing scenery and the steady, rolling gait lulled Geralt into a near meditative state.

Earlier than he’d expected, the sign-post for Carsten came into view. He reined in Roach, slowing her to an easy jog as they entered the small village. He was pleased to see the community still bustling; the last time he’d ridden through several foolish townsfolk had been keeping a pile of corpses locked away in a barn which had drawn a half-dozen hungry ghouls.  If Geralt hadn’t happened by – going alone into the barn to slaughter the creatures – he wouldn’t have been surprised to find the town overrun by corpse-eaters.

Harreth had said that his sister Maisey lived just outside of Carsten, so it was likely that folk in town would know her. He dismounted, though kept the reins wrapped loose in one hand (no need to let Roach wander), and approached an old man seated on a stool. He had his back propped against the outer wall of a small but tidy home, under the shade of the eaves, and he was doing something with his hands: some kind of busywork. Whittling maybe.

He looked up as Geralt neared, squinting at him warily. “Strange one, ain’t yeh? Hair’s whiter than mine.” His low chortle was raspy and wet-sounding and nearly ended in a cough.

“Witcher,” Geralt said by way of explanation.

The old man bobbed his head. “Heard o’ your sort. You the one that got them fools to burn those bodies? Killed those ghouls in the barn?”

Surprised – and slightly pleased – to be remembered, Geralt inclined his head. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Well good on yeh. Told them fools they were idiots for thinking a few walls would keep the scavengers at bay.” He dropped his attention back to his hands. Geralt had been right, he held a whittling knife and a block of wood that looked like it was being shaped into some kind of animal. A bear or wolf. If Geralt tried, he would’ve been able to pick up the scent of the raw sap and wood shavings scattering at his feet with each flick of the knife. The old man paused to blow a few chips away and then finally looked up again to ask, “What is it I can do for yeh?”

“Looking for Maisey. Heard she keeps some land nearby.”

“Oh, aye. She’s only about a league southeast of here. House is just a stone’s throw off the north side of the road.” His head tipped down again, but he kept his hands still between his knees. “’Expect you’re here about the trouble, then?”

“What trouble is that?”

A few moments passed in silence, and Geralt started to wonder if he’d get an answer. Maybe an Axii would get him talking?

He’d just lifted his first two fingers and curled down the ring finger and pinky, ready to compel the old man to speak, when the man raised his gaze up to meet Geralt’s again. And Geralt knew shame when he saw it.

“What happened?”

The old man swallowed hard, but spoke. “Well, it’s like this. A few weeks back, maybe close to two months now, Maisey and her husband Urich just up and vanished. They used to come to town about every two days. Maisey sellin’ vegetables and Urich just spendin’ her coin in the tavern. Folks kinda figured maybe some bandit or beast got to ‘em. Few of the local boys went to check out the house, but didn’t find anything.

“And then, strangest thing happens about a week after that. Maisey shows up, happy as you please, with more of her vegetables to sell. She’s smilin’ fit to burst and friendlier than anyone’s ever seen her. Only, Urich ain’t with her. Folk ask after him – he’s got a few friends in town yeh see – and she acts like she hardly knows the man. Like she ain’t worried that he’s still gone.”

Geralt could sense where this was going. “Lemme guess. A few of those friends weren’t happy that Maisey didn’t care about her husband’s disappearance?”

That got a guilty nod in response. “They stewed about it fer awhile, yeh see. Maisey had family visiting for a couple of weeks, so those boys couldn’t do nothin’ at first. They did their drinkin’ and talking and got to planning.  Didn’t help that her sister came into the village just as dour and friendly as a dead codfish, then a fortnight later when she’s passin’ through on her way home, she’s just like Maisey. All smiles and friendly words.  Those boys were sure as shit that Maisey’d done somethin’ to Urich and that sister was in on it.”

“Those men know that Urich was beating her?”

The old man looked away then. “I don’t doubt it. But they’re all rough lads. Doubt they saw anything wrong with the way Urich treated his wife.”

He had to ask, “What’d they do to her?”

This time the old man’s face went quizzical. “Well, that’s the trouble, ain’t it?  Those boys are missing too.”

Expecting to hear that Maisey had met the local ruffians version of ‘justice’ Geralt frowned at the answer. “What about Maisey?”

“Oh, she was just as happy and smilin’ when she came into town yesterday. Course, people asked her ‘bout them boys. She said yeah, she saw them, but that she just sent them after Urich. And then she went on smilin’ like nothing was wrong.” He lifted the hand that held the whittling knife and scratched his chin with the dull side of the blade. “O’ course, that’s got a few in town eager to send some more folks to talk to her.”

Geralt could read between the lines: _talk_ meant something else... Something much less friendly. And there was enough guilt radiating off the old man that Geralt knew he’d been party to those discussions. “You can tell those concerned citizens that it’s not Maisey they should be worried about.”

“You’re after thinkin’ it’s some kind of beast that’s made her like this? And that’s done in Urich?”

“Any other reason a Witcher would be here?”

The old man shook his head, frowning as he considered it. “No, I suppose not. Can’t rightly think of a reason.”

Let him stew on that, Geralt decided, turning away from the conversation. There were times he grew so very weary of people and their prejudices. He was long since inured to the suspicion and fear and disgust aimed his way, but occasionally it still managed to surprise him how much people could turn on each other. (He could hear the voice of Vesemir in his head, chiding him for being naïve.)

Ignoring that the old man muttered something – he deliberately tuned it out, though he could’ve easily heard it had he wanted to – Geralt started down the main thoroughfare that would lead him out of town. There was nothing else he needed to learn in Carsten.

Roach, who’d been placidly nibbling at over-long grasses that edged the rutted dirt road, snorted in protest when the slack went out of her reins and she was forced to amble after Geralt. Once away from the village, he mounted up and headed in a southeasterly direction. Even keeping Roach at easy lope, it wouldn’t take Geralt long to reach Maisey’s home. The sun had dipped low, burning orange and red behind the trees and the cloud-washed blue of the day was slowly giving way to the deeper indigo hues of night. He only hoped Maisey wouldn’t be put off by a stranger knocking on her door at dusk.

It turned out that he didn’t have to knock.

Using his enhanced sense of smell, Geralt had picked up the pungent fragrance of woodsmoke over a mile back, and though he’d stuck to the road, he used the trailing scent to guide him that final ‘stone’s throw’ as the old man had described. He was still guiding Roach through the trees when a voice called out a very cheery, “Hello!”

Breaching the boundary of the tree line led to a large expanse of open land that was mostly given over to several farmed plots, with a small, cleared patch remaining for a tidy flower garden and well-made little cottage.  Geralt immediately followed that warm greeting to the woman who’d made it. Maisey – he knew it could be no one else – knelt in the dirt between the meticulously tended rows of sprouting carrots.

“Hello,” Geralt returned the hail, though he stopped Roach before getting too close to the vegetables, and he studied Harreth’s sister. She was somewhat plain, but pretty enough in a way that farmgirls often were. Her hair was darker than her brother’s – tawny gold instead of straw blond – which was loosely woven in two plaits, but she and Harreth had the same eyes and the same angle to their chin. It was her smile, though, that caught the attention most. It was almost dazzling.

Geralt reached out with his senses, trying to see if he could get any feel for magic or spellwork around her, but found nothing.

Maisey wiped her hands on her apron and grinned up at him. “You’ll have to beg my pardon, sir. I’d wanted to get these carrots yanked before nightfall.” She glanced up a moment at the near-evening sky and then giggled softly. “Guess I lost track of time, and the carrots haven’t cooperated.” She waved him over. “But c’mon. You look like a strapping fellow. Help me get the rest of these pulled and I’ll treat you to supper for the effort.”

Not even waiting to see if he’d comply, she got back to work. Geralt could hear her humming softly to herself. There was no air of confusion, or discomfort in the way she acted.

She just seemed… happy.

“In for a copper, in for a crown, eh Roach?” Geralt muttered to his mare as he dismounted and then tied Roach’s reins to her saddle.

He stepped carefully between the neatly tilled rows and then knelt in the cool earth at the far end of a row that was bustling with green fronds. Maisey’d clearly had a bountiful harvest. He watched her technique a moment, saw the way gripped the very base of the greens where they joined the orange taproot and kind of twisted as she pulled them loose. Geralt followed suit. He quickly found a rhythm to the process and made steady progress down the row.

“It’s a good crop,” Geralt commented idly, examining a particularly hearty specimen before setting it aside in his growing stack.

“Isn’t it?” Maisey replied, sounding utterly delighted. “I planted in the late fall with the hopes of producing a good, strong stock.” She paused a moment, gesturing to other locations in the large vegetable garden. “I’ll have the rest of the root vegetables up soon, I think. Parsnips and turnips. And then it’s on to Spring planting.” She drew the back of her hand over her forehead, smearing a bit of dirt there and then blushed. “Listen to me, tittering on when I’ve not even introduced myself properly. I’m Maisey.” Giggling again, she bent at the waist and extended an arm in front of her, feigning a curtsey while kneeling in dark black earth.

It was almost impossible not to smile back. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well met, Geralt. You’ve a good hand with carrots. I may have to keep you around for the rutabaga.” She laughed and then pointed back towards the house. “And now that you’ve got that row completed, why don’t you fetch the cart and we can load these up for the root cellar.”

Geralt found himself standing, compelled by nothing more than the warmth in her words. He fetched the two-wheeled cart and started loading the carrots in neat stacks. By the time she was done with the final row, he nearly caught up to her. They finished the last few together and Geralt lifted the carts’ handles. “Where to?” he asked.

Maisey started toward the house and waved for him to follow. “This way!”

Fully laden, the cart was rather heavy and it took a bit of effort to wheel the thing out of the loose soil onto the firmer grass. He wondered how she managed by herself, and then remembered she had a husband. A husband whose absence he was curious about. “Heavy,” he remarked.

“The sign of a good harvest!” she agreed warmly.

“How do you manage when it’s just you?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

She stilled, mid-step, foot landing clumsily and for the first time, he saw Maisey something other than animated and happy. Her smile fell away as she turned to look at him over her shoulder in confusion. Right at that moment Geralt felt a faint vibration in his wolf’s head medallion. He watched as Maisey struggled to answer – mouth opening and closing a moment while she stared vacantly - and then finally shook her head as her thoughts apparently cleared. “Oh,” she answered, once again perky, “I don’t load it all at once, silly. I make several trips.”

“Right,” Geralt agreed, like her words were the height of logic. “Of course.” Pushing, he went on. “Just wondered if your husband helped?”

She’d started walking again, but her step stuttered, and Geralt felt that same shiver at his neck. It didn’t last as long and immediately after she gave a dismissive gesture with her arm. “Oh, no. Urich… um, he’s not good with the garden.”

“He around?”

“No,” Maisey shook her head fervently. “No, he’s away. He’s… away.”

Before Geralt could ask any more, they’d reached the doors to the root cellar. As it was easier to just unload the produce than try to manage any decent conversation as he passed armfuls of carrots from the cart down to Maisey, who stacked them in wooden crates, he decided to hold off until they were done.

Naturally, things didn’t go quite to plan (Maisey insisted on them both washing up, and then commandeered him into repairing her leaky pump spigot while finished readying supper) and it wasn’t actually until they were seated at her small table, bowls of steaming stew before them, that she surprised him by initiating the conversation he’d been trying to push towards. “I meant to ask you, Geralt. What is it you’re doing here? I assume you don’t just randomly show up at the homes of lonely widows to help them with their chores?” Her eyes twinkled quite merrily, but Geralt didn’t miss the way she’d referred to herself.

“Harreth,” he explained. “Asked me to look in on you while I was passing this way. Was worried about you being alone.”

Maisey beamed with delight even as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, that brother of mine. He worries after me so.”

Once again probing with feigned nonchalance, Geralt said, “Well, I’m sure he worries about you after what happened to your husband.”

This time he saw it clearly when Maisey’s face blanked; her eyes unfocused and her mouth went slack. It happened in a blink, and she returned to normal within moments, already smiling. “Well, yes, with Urich away I guess I can understand his worry.” She wagged a mock-stern finger at him. “But you tell that brother of mine that I’m doing quite well on my own. He doesn’t need to worry overmuch.”

“What is it your husband is doing, again?”

Though Maisey scowled, she answered readily enough with no hesitation, no sign of that curious blankness. “Treasure hunting.” Her words were bitter and sharp.

“Treasure hunting?” Geralt echoed.

“Oh, aye,” Maisey agreed. “He’s up at those old Elvish ruins east of here. Diggin’ away, convinced he’s going to unearth some astounding treasure.” She snorted derisively. “Even dragged me up there at first, but I wasn’t having none of that after a while.”

Geralt knew from experience that there was no treasure to be found in those ruins, elven or otherwise. Which led him to wonder what had convinced Urich that there was. “Any idea why he’s expecting to find treasure there?”

Maisey didn’t answer right away, focusing her attention on her meal instead and urging Geralt to eat as well, gesturing with her spoon and chiding, “Eat while it’s hot.”

Again, Geralt found it easier just to go along with her suggestion. Not to mention, the stew was hearty and quite tasty and chock full of vegetables from her own garden. He did eat quickly though, and from the fond way she watched him scrape the final dregs of his bowl, his enthusiasm for the food pleased Maisey.

“More?” she offered. “There’s plenty.”

Geralt pushed his bowl away, and shook his head. “No thanks. It’s very good and very filling.” He took a long pull from the goblet of Rhovian Red she’d served with the meal and continued nursing the cup until she finished with her own bowl. “So, you were saying about Urich? Where he’d heard about the treasure?”

She frowned, like she was puzzled, and Geralt worried she might balk at answering. “Oh, did I not mention it?” When Geralt shook his head Maisey’s ever-present smile pushed out into pursed lips. “You really must forgive me.  These days I sometimes wonder if all that time in the garden, under the sun, has addled my mind.” If that was truly a concern, her light-hearted giggle certainly belied it.

“Well,” she began, propping an elbow on the table and resting her chin in her palm. “It was a few weeks back now. I’d been in the garden, naturally, working on pruning the runner beans, when I spotted two men come out of the woods. They were rough-looking fellows, so naturally I fetched Urich. He bade me wait in the house, that he’d fend them off, but I hurried to a window to listen, to see if they meant trouble. They were deserters, I’d guess, from the way they talked.”

“From which army?” Geralt asked.

“Not an army, as such, from what they said. A rebel camp of sorts, not far from here? They were not part of that group, just hired mercenaries.”

Rebel camp? Geralt considered it only a moment before realizing they must’ve come from Vernon Roche’s hideout. Though, he was certainly surprised to hear that Roche had been using mercenaries.

“So, I’m hearing all this, thinking Urich is going to send them on their way, and then I hear Urich comment on a cloak-pin one of them wore.” She sniffed in derision. “Of course, that’s what would interest Urich. And then they tell him of these ruins and how the one fellow had won this pin off a man in a game of cards. This man who’d been to those ruins.”

Maisey’s chin pivoted in the cup of her palm as she shook her head. “Next thing I know, Urich’s invited those blokes into my home, and insisting I feed them dinner. He sends me out the room after, while they start plotting.”

“Lemme guess?” Geralt interjected. “Husband decided a visit to these ruins was necessary?”

She pointed at him. “Oh, you know this story, do you?” This time her laugh held a chilly brittleness. “Aye, you’re right. Those men slept in our house, and in the morning Urich insisted I help him ready our cart horse, Daffodil.”

To Geralt’s surprise, considering how open and free-speaking she’d been up until then, Maisey suddenly sat up straight, her gaze unfocused, and her expression blanked. This time, however, she spoke while ‘blanked’ and her tone was flat and eerie. “It was an uneventful trip to the ruins. It took us a day and a half to get there and we set up a campsite just outside.”

At his neck, his medallion vibrated feebly, like it wasn’t entirely sure there was something ‘other’ to be detected.

Quick as a blink, Maisey returned to herself and carried on speaking like that hadn’t just happened. “Spent nearly a week up there diggin’ around. The boys went into the underground, but I stayed outside. And of course, they didn’t find anything.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d probably still be up there if Berta – that’s my sister – and her man Jory hadn’t found us.” Just as before, it an instant, she changed and it was almost as if her body got taken over by some entity that spoke for her. “They told Urich they were going to take me home. He agreed.” She slumped out of it once again, and loosely shrugged. “I was keen to be away from that place, so Berta and Jory brought me home. Stayed on a few days to keep me company. Which Harreth would know, as he also visited.”

“And Urich?” Geralt prompted.

Maisey’s shoulders hefted up in another dismissive shrug. “As far as I know, Urich’s up there searching still.”

Clearly, something – or someone – had done something to her that affected her memories. No, not just memories, Geralt realized, but bad memories, traumatic memories. Forced by an abusive husband to travel with him and two other men… well, Geralt could fill in the blanks well-enough. From the way that his medallion reacted whenever it happened, Geralt could only assume it wasn’t just that her memories had been taken, but that they were being actively blocked.

Unfortunately, even focusing his senses when it happened didn’t give him much of a clue. He did get an odd whiff of some odor that second time – something like cinnamon and musk -  though it had been so faint he couldn’t even locate a source.

Since any memory she might have of encountering a creature or person in the ruins had clearly been tampered with, Geralt decided that questioning Maisey any further would get him nowhere. Though he did have to make a choice about which lead to follow next.  He could ride straight for the ruins, and start his own investigating; or, he could ride for Roche’s encampment and find out if anyone there had had a run-in with something nefarious in those ruins.

Preferring to gain a bit more knowledge about what he was dealing with, it was easy for Geralt to choose the latter. He’d pay Vernon Roche a visit.

Extricating himself from Maisey’s house proved to be a bit more of a challenge than he expected. He tried to thank her for the meal and be on his way, but she was just so friendly. She offered him use of the spare bed as it was ‘too late to travel’ and then insisted on packing up some journey food for him (despite his protests that he had plenty of provisions already). Even after that task was done, she continued to chatter at him eagerly.

He sensed – not with his Witcher senses, just regular human empathy – that she was lonely. Happy, for the most part – especially to be free of the terror that was her husband – but longing for human companionship.

Finally standing at the open door, Geralt turned back when Maisey called his name.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “For your help today. And for the conversation.”

Geralt inclined his head. “It was my pleasure. Be well, Maisey.”

“You too, Geralt.”

He stepped out into the night, and as the door closed behind him he reached out with his senses to listen for a minute: the sounds of a table being cleared were accompanied by a soft, lilting humming. Content, he walked out into the yard and whistled. A responding whinny told him that Roach wasn’t too far (likely visiting Daffodil the cart horse), and she trotted into view just a few seconds later.

Though it had to be nearing midnight, Geralt wasn’t put off by the thought of continuing his journey at such a late hour. He could see well enough in the dark for both himself and his horse. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be the first time he rode into Roche’s encampment in the middle of the night.

Roach was content to amble through the trees until they reach the road, and once there Geralt kept her at a slow jog. It was only a few miles to the Temerian camp, and the slower pace let Geralt maintain a focus on their surroundings. He sensed wolves near the roadway once, and urged Roach faster for the better part of a mile. It wasn’t for fear of them, just that he didn’t feel like going to the trouble of stopping and dismounting long enough to deal with them.  There was enough game in the surrounding countryside that he doubted they’d stay near the roads long or be any trouble for travelers.

He did stop though, when he caught the scent of something fetid… rotting. Some kind of necrophage most likely. A vague red shape pulsed in the distance – multiple enemies most likely - telling him where to go, and he leapt off Roach’s back and hurried towards a rocky drop-off that edged a small stream. Something gave a very inhuman screech and Geralt’s lip curled in response. “Drowners.” He drew his silver sword, paused long enough to smash a vial of oil against the blade just below the crosspiece, letting it drip down the length as he charged toward the first creature. With his other hand, he formed the shape for Igni and thrust it toward the drowner.

Engulfed by the sudden gout of flame, the drowner screamed again and stumbled toward Geralt flailing and clawing and burning. He met it with an upward strike of his sword, catching it below the ribcage. He yanked the weapon back, putting a boot up to push the dying monster off and then spun to face the next one. It reached for him, claw-tipped fingers scrabbling at the leather of his bracer and he shoved it back and then swung for its neck. A clean slice parted the drowner’s head from his shoulders and the head tumbled past him while the body slumped lifelessly to the ground.

He flexed his fingers again, this time for an Aard, pushing out with the sign at the next three drowners that charged at him.  Two were flung back and the third crumpled like a bird that had flown into a window. He impaled that one quickly – just to be sure it was dead – and then squared off against the first one to recover from being momentarily stunned. It growled and stalked toward him warily and then made a quick, sudden leap for his throat; he met it with a smooth riposte that skewered the thing through the chest.

The final creature still stood where it had been knocked down by the Aard. It had gained its feet, but lurched in place, clearly still addled. Geralt approached and the thing turned its head like it was trying to hear to focus on him and couldn’t quite do so.  It was the matter of a quick slash of his sword to bisect the drowner completely.

With all five visible drowners dead, Geralt reached out with his senses again, just to be sure he’d gotten them all and that there wasn’t one lurking below the surface of the water. He sensed nothing. Pleased, he wiped his blade off in the grass -  Roach sometimes reacted badly to the scent of necrophage gore – and then sheathed the weapon across his back.

Dutifully, Roach still stood where he’d left her. She might have a tendency to wander when she got bored, but she stayed ground-tied when it counted. The whole encounter had taken only a few minutes, and he tapped his heels to Roach’s barrel to get her moving again.

The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully, and a quick glance at the position of the waning gibbous moon and the whirl of the stars put the time at about an hour to dawn by the time he reached the mouth of the cavern that served as a base for Roche’s troops. He was met by a pair of guards who recognized him from previous visits. “He awake?”

“Aye, as if that daft man ever sleeps.” It was said with grudging admiration, and Geralt gave a knowing nod.

“He’ll be glad you’re here.” The other guard stated, which was a strange enough thing that Geralt paused before heading into the cavern.

“Why do you say that?”

The two men exchanged a glance. “Think he was after sending out for you. Some trouble in camp,” the first explained.

“Best let him explain,” the second added.

“Right,” Geralt said, nodding. He strode into the camp, ignoring the stares and low voices that followed his progress through the rocky tunnels. When he came around the bend that opened up into the grotto that Roche had claimed for his headquarters, he was almost startled when a body launched himself at him. Only his reflexes and quick senses – catching a glimpse of the short-cropped blonde hair, and the particular scent of leather and steel and rosehips – stopped him from reacting badly and shoving it away.  Still, it was a shock to have Ves throwing her arms around him and hugging him.

“Geralt!” That was Roche’s voice. “Thank god you’re here.”

“Uh, Vernon.” He patted rather lamely at Ves’s shoulders. She really was squeezing him tight.

“Oh ignore him, Geralt,” Ves laughed into his neck. “He’s just being uptight. Though it is wonderful to see you!”

Ves certainly seemed…happy?

Damn. It didn’t take long to figure out what that meant. Ves had been to the ruins.

“Good to see you too, Ves,” Geralt said, gently trying to extricate himself from her embrace. She let herself be peeled away, though not without effort, and even once she stood an arm’s length from him she bounced on her heels and grinned at him eagerly.

“Ves,” Roche said gently, “why don’t you give Geralt and I a few minutes to talk.”

She rolled her eyes quite dramatically and then gave a mock-sigh. “Oh, all right, Roche. Though I know you just want to talk about me. And I keep telling you, I’m fine! I feel wonderful.” She pointed at Geralt. “Don’t you listen to Roche and his silly concerns. He’s just a miserable sod who can’t understand why everyone else isn’t miserable too.” And she… giggled. It was such an unnerving sound coming from her.

Geralt nodded. “Right, I’ll keep that in mind, Ves.”

Seeming pleased by that answer, Ves patted him on the arm and then left him and Roche alone in the grotto. Roche started to speak, but Geralt held up a hand. He waited until her footsteps were distant enough that she’d not be able to overhear, and then motioned for Roche to go ahead.

“There’s something wrong with Ves–”

“I know,” Geralt interrupted. “She’s happy. Like she hasn’t got an unpleasant memory left in her head, right?”

Roche blew out a breath, and his shoulders drooped. “I really am glad you’re here, Geralt,” he said wearily.

Getting a good look at him, Geralt recognized the signs of a man whose nerves were frayed with worry. Roche’s face was lined and haggard and his eyes dark-ringed; even his chaperon sat slightly askew. “Anything left in that bottle?” Geralt asked, gesturing to what looked like Temerian Brandy standing on and up-ended barrel near the opposite side of the grotto.

Roche nodded, and waved him over. He slumped wearily onto his rough pallet and patted the space next to him. “Bring it with you.”

Geralt detoured to grab the liquor – which was more than half full – and then took a seat next to Roche. He downed a long swig of the brandy, which was sweet and warm and burned pleasantly going down, and then handed it over.

After taking his own equally long pull, Roche wiped the back of an arm across his mouth and then asked, “What’s happened to her?”

“Don’t exactly know,” Geralt replied. He took the bottle as Roche passed it back, but didn’t drink. “I’m on a contract to figure out what happened to a man’s sister. She’s the same as Ves.”

Roche reached out for the bottle and took another swallow. “What can I do?”

“Walk me through what happened. I’ve got some idea, but I’m missing some details. Don’t know exactly what I’m dealing with yet.”

“Right,” Roche nodded. He offered the brandy to Geralt one more time, and when he declined, set the bottle down on the floor between their feet. “Well, it was a week and a half ago. I sent Ves and two other men out after a scouting party of Nilfguardians was spotted to the north of here. If they’re broaching the territory, I want to know if they’ve discovered this location, or it’s just coincidence.” He dismissed that concern with a curt swipe of his hand. “So, Ves took out a few of our newer recruits, to get the mettle of them. They’d been mercenaries before joining up.”

“Mercenaries, Vernon?” He tried not to raise a judging eyebrow.

Roche shrugged. “We’ve been recruiting where we can. I think some men join up for the promise of being fed and housed, but once they see we’re serious about this endeavor, they want nothing to do with actual warfare.” He sighed. “It’s just the nature of it. And that’s not important. What’s important is that Ves took those men with her, and only Ves came back.” His fingers clenched in a fist. “And I can’t get anything from her. She only says they tracked the Nilfguardians to the remains of Est Tayiar and that the men with her decided to stay.”

“Something about treasure?” Geralt asked.

“How did you know?”

“The sister. I spoke with her. Her husband went missing too. Seems he followed a couple of deserters to those ruins. Brought the sister with him.  Eventually another sister and brother-in-law went and found her and brought her home. But I couldn’t get a clear answer about what happened to the husband or the other men. Just that they were still there, searching for treasure.”

Roche picked up the bottle again. He took a drink, and Geralt accepted when it was passed over. “This sister,” he began, “did she ever go quiet? In the middle of speaking?”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah. Went blank. Either there was something blocking certain memories, or they’d been… removed.”

“Right, that’s it exactly.” Roche frowned, scrubbing a hand over his face. Then he reached up and yanked the chaperon from his head and flung it on the bed. Underneath his hair was silvering and close-cropped and he rubbed his fingers through it roughly.

Had Geralt ever seen Roche without the thing? He couldn’t recall. It made Roche look weirdly older and younger at the same time.

“These memories,” he started haltingly, voice gone rougher than usual.

Geralt knew what he was getting at. “Yeah,” he acknowledged before Roche had to ask it. “Bad ones. Same with Maisey. The sister.”

Roche turned to him, eyes almost pleading. “She doesn’t remember Henselt, Geralt! And I don’t fucking know what to make of that. It’s like a ploughing mercy, but…”

“But without those memories, she’s not Ves.” Geralt said it for him.

Guilt wracked Roche’s face, but he nodded. “Yes. I don’t recognize her anymore. And I feel like the gods bedamned whoreson that I am for wishing I had the old Ves back.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but he did tip the bottle back again. There wasn’t much left when he gave it back to Roche, who emptied the thing. He let it drop, and they both watched it roll across the stone floor until it bumped into an armor rack and then stopped.

“Can’t let this keep happening, Vernon,” Geralt finally said. “Need to find out what’s happening to those men, and what’s affecting everyone else. One thing, it’s not just women. Maisey’s brother-in-law… my contact told me he and the wife had been affected the same way. They were both smiling too much. Happy.” He hesitated. “It’s still a guess, but whatever’s doing this, it may be targeting certain types of people.”

Roche’s mouth thinned to a grim line. He understood. “The abusers and rapists, they go missing. The victims come back.”

He could only nod in agreement. That certainly seemed to be the pattern.

“When do we leave?”

He turned to eye Roche. “We?”

Under Geralt’s scrutiny, Roche sat up straighter and picked up the chaperon, carefully settling it back on his head. It seemed to change him somehow, like he was suiting up for battle. “I’m not going to wait around while you go after this, Geralt. I’m going to help Ves.”

“Right,” Geralt reluctantly agreed. “Well, there’s no time like the present. C’mon.” He stood. “Gear-up and let’s be on our way.”

It might’ve been that easy, if Ves hadn’t been waiting near the cavern’s entrance. “Leaving without me?” she asked, and though she was smiling, there was an edge to it that dared them to contradict her.

“Ves–” Roche started, but she spoke over him.

“No, Vernon. Whatever it is you’re doing, you need me with you.” She turned a pleading gaze on Geralt. “Geralt, please tell him that I’m right.”

The last thing he wanted was to get in the middle of a spat between them, so Geralt just shrugged.

“Fat lot of good you are,” Ves sniffed, though she laughed after. “Well, Roche?”

Seeing he’d get no support from Geralt either way, obviously Roche settled on the lesser of evils. “Fine,” he said sharply, “but if I order you back here, you will obey without question. Is that clear?”

Ves bobbed her head. “Yes, of course.”

Somehow Geralt doubted her sincerity.

They waited while Ves got a third horse saddled and then rode out. Dawn broke as they left the hideout behind and turned north for the ruins of Est Tayiar. Geralt counted them fortunate the terrain was rough and thick with trees, as it meant they needed to concentrate on navigating their mounts rather than attempting conversation. Though, each time that they were able to ride three abreast over a relatively smooth stretch, Ves became rather garrulous. 

He and Roche took turns responding to her seemingly endless chatter with grunts and sounds of acknowledgement, though neither man did anything to encourage the conversation. Geralt definitely started to understand why Roche had looked like a man at the end of his tether. Ves could be talkative… overly, so. Even when he first met Roche’s second-in-command – before Henselt – she’d been a woman of few words. She’d preferred actions to get her message across, and usually that message was delivered on the edge of a blade.

This chatty version of Ves was unnerving.

They made it to Est Tayiar just as the sun peered over the tops of the tree line, it’s light casting a golden glow over a pleasant morning. When they dismounted, Roche tried to argue for Ves to stay with the horses, but she ignored him.

“I’m going with you, Roche. Like it or not.”

“Fine,” Roche relented. “But you’ll stay behind us. Clear?”

“Fine,” Ves echoed mockingly.

“If you two are done?” Geralt asked, and they both looked slightly abashed. “C’mon. The entrance to the ruins is down here.” He led them to the break in the floor where a tunnel beneath was exposed. He’d opened the passage long ago, using an odd tile that a group of Nilfguardian soldiers had unearthed as a key of sorts. Though there was no sign of the tile, the passage was still open, propped that way by stones jammed into the mechanism.

For the benefit of his companions - since he could see well enough in the dark, or could just down a Cat potion – Geralt pulled out a torch stub and cast a quick Igni on it. He held it aloft and then headed deeper into the tunnels.

There were definite signs of recent occupation. And something new: an exposed passage that hadn’t been there last time. When he’d come through in his search for Philippa, Geralt had found her hideaway by traversing a series of portals that he’d needed to activate. Someone, or something, had broken through a natural stone passage that headed off in a different direction than Phillippa’s workshop into what was clearly part of an underground Elven city. He focused his vision to see a plethora of footprints, in varying sizes of human feet going in that direction. There were quite a few more going in than coming out.

“This way,” he instructed and continued through the unknown corridor.

“I don’t…” Ves was saying. “This place… I think I rememb–”

“What do you remember, Ves?” Roche asked urgently.

She only gave a frustrated sigh in response. “I don’t know. Just, I think I’ve been here.”

While they spoke, Geralt reached out further. There were living beings further in the ancient city, but from this distance he couldn’t tell if they were human or not. Along with the tracks, Geralt found signs of occupation; the remains of a campfire, an abandoned bedroll, a broken pickaxe. Maybe the story of treasure wasn’t so farfetched?

They descended further into the underground city. The signs of habitation grew more obvious, and more frequent. Geralt’s medallion started to quiver. He focused on the lives around him again. Down a corridor to the west, there were several pulsing auras that were weak and thready. To the east, one strong and vibrant energy called to him.

“That way,” he gestured for Roche and Ves to continue westward. “Take the torch.” Before Roche could protest, he pointed to his own eyes. “Can see fine. Don’t worry. I think your men are that way. I’m going this way. Think whatever creature we’re after is down there.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Roche argued.

“We won’t leave you,” Ves added.

Their loyalty wasn’t surprising, but it could be a hindrance sometimes. “Just go. I’ll be fine. Go.”

Luckily, Roche didn’t argue a second time, and Ves would always follow his lead. “I’ll come back this way if you’ve not rejoined us soon,” Roche promised.

Sensing that was as much capitulation as he was going to get, Geralt nodded. “Fine. Just be careful. Not sure how much trouble those men will give you.”

“You as well, Geralt.”

He left them and turned down the leftward tunnel. The sense of ‘other’ grew as he found himself entering the remains of some kind of residence. The space was cleaned of clutter and haphazardly furnished. Lamps burned low in several rooms, and at the end of a hallway there was a closed door. Light, brighter light than shown in any of the other rooms, leaked out from under the space at the bottom of the door. That wildly pulsing energy certainly originated behind it.

Carefully, Geralt crept over to the door. He flicked his fingers out in a quick Quen sign, getting a shield up around himself, and then flung the door open.

“Hello, Witcher.” Yennefer of Vengerburg stood before him in the middle of a large, and rather opulent bedroom.

“You’re not Yen,” he accused immediately. Even as he said it, he calculated all the ways he’d already realized that he was right. Her smile was too perfect, and her lavender eyes held an ancient foreignness to them that made him want to shudder.

“Am I not?” she asked, mouth curving in a wicked grin. The likes of which he’d never seen on Yen’s mouth.

Geralt shook his head, short and curt.

She smiled again, predatory. “Does it matter?”

“Matters if you’ve done something to her.” He squared his stance, readying himself to draw the silver blade.

With an airy sigh – one that was far too Yen-like to be comfortable – the Yennefer-double blew a strand of ink-dark hair away from her face and then seemed to soften somehow, becoming less threatening. “Relax, Witcher,” she told him. “I’ve done nothing to this Yennefer. She’s merely the first figure I picked up from your mind.”

Frowning, Geralt asked, “Shapechanger?”

Not-Yen nodded.

“And some kind of telepathy?” he ventured.

“You’re a quick one, Witcher, I’ll give you that.”

He didn’t relax, not quite, but Geralt let his tense shoulders drop and he studied the figure of the woman opposite him. She’d gotten Yen almost perfect, down to the black and silver outfit and the smell of lilac and gooseberries. To anyone other than Geralt, it might’ve been effective. “Got a name?”

Suddenly Triss Merigold took the place of Yennefer. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“A name that’s not borrowed,” he amended. “Or a face you don’t have to steal?”

Not-Triss pouted prettily. “Oh, c’mon, Witcher. You can’t tell me you don’t like what you’re seeing.”

Geralt tried to flick his fingers out in an Axii, to compel her to shift, but she spotted the gesture, and hissed out a wordless curse. Geralt found his hand suddenly held firm; even his fingers were frozen. Just that arm though, the rest of him was free to move. Had she done that intentionally? Or was her power that limited?

“Enough of that,” she chided, and his hand was let loose once more. “Look, you’ve no need to use your abilities.” She sighed and it sounded reluctant. He didn’t know if that was just the effect of hearing it through Triss’s voice, or how she actually felt. “It’s just, I’ve met Witchers before. You lot tend to see inhuman as immediately bad. I’m not a fan of sword first, questions later.”

“Help to know I’ve got friends who aren’t human?” he offered.

“What? Elves and dwarves?” She scoffed. “No, I mean what you’d call monsters.”

“Vampire count?” Since she could obviously read his thoughts to some level, he formed an image of Regis in his mind.

A red-gold brow lifted and Not-Triss studied him with interest. “It’s a start,” she allowed, albeit reluctantly.

“I’m not the kill first, questions later type either. I’ve walked away from my fair share of what people think of as monsters.”

She seemed to think on it. “Fine. Give me your word you’ll not draw your sword if I shift to my natural state.”

Geralt bowed his head. “You’ve my word as a Witcher.”

Not-Triss turned away a moment, and when she spun back, the being that stared back at Geralt was no longer familiar. What troubled him was that she wasn’t even familiar as far as monster-types went, though he suspected something in the succubus family. She had elegantly sweeping horns curving out of her brow and a roughly human face, with sharp cheekbones and a slender nose, though her upper lip was bifurcated like a cat and her eyes were over-large and both iris and sclera were entirely black.  Tufted and pointed ears swept back from an elegant jawline, and her hair tousled down like a long, silky mane in tendrils and coils of multi-hued amber and cream. Her skin was the color of honey, but patterned with coppery markings – stripes and spots – along her long bones, while fading to pale gold at the tender areas of her throat and wrists and inner elbows.

She was definitely female, or at least displayed overtly female features, beneath a loose, silken gown. Though, he couldn’t say for sure; maybe any gender of her species had breasts? There was a lushness to her figure, an allure that he couldn’t quite define. Despite the fact that she was clearly not human, Geralt found something quite striking about her.

“Well?” she asked, and it surprised him that she seemed insecure about her natural appearance.

He shrugged, not sure how else to respond. “I’ve never seen one of you before,” he admitted. “What do I call you?”

“That’s it?” she asked, archly, one thin, almost furred brow raising elegantly. “No remarks about the ears, or the horns or the tail?”

To be fair, he’d not noticed the tail, but as she remarked it, the fully prehensile appendage swung into view and coiled around one ankle. It followed the same pattern as her skin color and was tufted by hair that matched her long tresses. Her legs were jointed like a succubus’ might be, but they ended in wolf-like paws rather than hooves.

He studied her a moment longer, since she was clearly expecting it. He could see the way she shifted, like she was preening and displaying herself, but there was something wary and vulnerable around her eyes.

Geralt shrugged again, unsure what she was fishing for. “Not sure what you want me to say. You look nice.”

“Nice?” she scoffed. “Nice? First time I show my true form to someone in four decades and I get ‘nice’.”

“Pretty?” Geralt offered.

It was odd the way that he could tell her eyes were rolling, despite their otherworldly blackness. “How did those women I shifted into put up with you?”

“Not all that well, to be honest.” Geralt admitted. He wasn’t in the mood to get into his past troubles with Yen and Triss.

“I can believe that.” She seemed to reach some sort of decision and then visibly relaxed. She propped her hip against an end table. “So, what do I call you, Witcher?”

“Geralt of Rivia. And you?”

“Caelibo.”

“Caelibo,” Geralt repeated. “Well met.”

She laughed and it was an eerie, melodic sort of purr. “Yes, well. Much as I’d like to believe that, what is it that brings you here?” She cocked her head. “You’re not the usual sort that invades my domain.”

“Yeah, about that,” Geralt began. “I’m working a contract for someone. His sister is Maisey. You know her?”

Caelibo nodded. “Of course. Pretty, sweet. Fond of her garden. Came here with her monstrous husband and two other vile men.” She sighed. “I suppose you want them back?”

Geralt shrugged. “Really don’t care about them. More concerned with what you did to Maisey.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Maisey? She was fine when she left here.”

He studied her, but Geralt didn’t get any sense that she was lying. It felt like a bit of a ridiculous accusation, but he said it anyway, “Brother says she’s happy. Uncharacteristically so. Another sister and brother-in-law are like that as well. And she’s got gaps, in her memories. Her brother is worried. Thinks she’s under some kind of spell or compulsion.”

Staring at him like he was the unfamiliar monster, Caelibo shook her head slowly. “You think this a bad thing? That she’s happy?”

“Not the smiling. But she’s got memories missing. She doesn’t remember her own husband.”

Caelibo’s tail lashed. “Her husband was an abusive, disgusting bastard.”

“Even so–” Geralt started, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Even so? Do you know, Witcher, that while he dragged his wife to these ruins he offered her body to those other men. He made a plaything of his own wife, and felt no guilt for doing so. And it wasn’t the first time.”

“What about the other men? The ones that came looking for Urich after?”

“Oh, they’re here as well,” she admitted freely. “And they stay here. The power of their avarice feeds me.  They will search and dig through those ruins until they wear themselves to nothing, and like their greed and lust, it will bring them nothing.”

“You feed off their life force?”

She shrugged. “I feed off of many things. Many emotions.”

“Like a succubus?” he ventured.

“Much like that, yes. In truth, I am much like one. The purest, most sustaining energy I feel comes from sexual gratification. But… it is not in my nature to use my ability to force another into my bed.”

“Yet you force those men here, against their will.”

Caelibo scoffed. “I draw only on their existing greed and lust. I do not place those emotions there. I simply exploit them.”

“Why them?  Why not the other men or women?” Geralt asked, but he and Roche had already sussed out that answer.

Caelibo just confirmed it. “They are vile men, Geralt of Rivia. There is darkness in their hearts and they have brought great abuse and injustice to the innocent. I do not feed off those who have been victims, not in that fashion.”

“You _do_ feed off of them though? Maisey and Berta and Ves?”

“What I do for them, while it benefits me and can sustain me, is truly for them. They all hold on to memories that cause them undeniable pain. I merely help to block those memories.”

He thought about Maisey, how happy she’d been. Not having access to those memories didn’t seem to be a detriment.  And while he understood Roche’s reaction to Ves’s behavior, was it such a terrible thing that she seemed freer and more at peace than he’d ever known her.

“Never heard of anything like you,” Geralt admitted, veering away from the topic at hand.  

Caelibo spread her hands. “I am unique, Geralt. Even I do not know what I truly am.”

“How’s that possible?”

“It is believed that my mother was something like what you’d know as a succubus today. At least that is what I was told by the mage who raised me. My father, he said, had been a covetous vexling.”

Geralt knew of vexlings. They were similar to dopplers, and some lore held that they were one and the same.

“How did a vexling and a succubus come together?”

It was the wrong thing to ask. Geralt knew it the moment the words left his tongue.

Caelibo’s well-dark eyes narrowed and her lip curled away from her teeth, revealing that she had pointed canine fangs. “ _She_ had no choice in the matter, Witcher.” 

That certainly explained a lot.

“Geralt!”

Dammit, that was Roche.

“Stay back,” Geralt warned.

Even as Caelibo hissed out, “Human!”

“Geralt,” Roche said again, this time his name was a question. He stepped up behind Geralt’s shoulder, but pressed no further.

“It’s all right, Roche. She’s not our enemy.”

He was standing close enough that Geralt felt the breath of a snort unsettle the hair at his nape, but he just shook his head. “It’s true, Roche. What she did to Ves, to Maisey and the others… it wasn’t meant as a cruelty, but a kindness.”

“How can you call what was done to Ves a kindness?”

Before Geralt could answer, Cailebo took a step toward them. “I felt her pain, human! She carries it with her still and always. It is like a darkness forever dwelling within her mind. All that I did was hide that pain away from her conscious memory, so she need not suffer it any longer.”

“She’s not herself without her pain,” Roche argued hotly.

Cailebo opened her mouth, fangs bared and a scathing retort clearly on her tongue, when suddenly her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air between them. Her fierce expression softened in an instant, eyes going wide and guileless. “I could help you, too,” she offered. “You needn’t remember.” She reached out, hand held out, palm exposed and inviting.

Geralt felt Roche stiffen at his back, and heard his nearly silent, indrawn gasp. He realized the implications of her words a moment too late.

“You’ll fix what you did to Ves,” Roche insisted, not acknowledging her offer, and there was a rawness to his tone that Geralt fought to ignore.  Roche wouldn’t thank him for asking about it. 

“If she asks,” Geralt added. “If it’s what Ves wants.” Much as he didn’t want to contradict Roche, especially not now, he had to think about what Caelibo had told him earlier.

“Geralt,” Roche growled.

“Vernon,” he replied, keeping his voice level, unjudging. “Let it be Ves’s choice.”

Roche huffed again and his whole being was radiating tension, but finally and grudgingly he agreed. “If it’s what she wants.”

“Is that acceptable?” he asked Caelibo. Ves was, effectively, another food source for her. Geralt didn’t want to have to fight a unique and sympathetic creature like her if he could help it. But if she disagreed; if she didn’t want to let Ves go…

“Of course,” Caelibo nodded. “If she wishes those memories returned, I will sever the block.”

“Thank you,” Roche said, if a bit grudgingly.

“Get Ves,” he told Roche. “I’ll be right here,” he added, when it seemed that Roche might protest. “I’ll be fine.”

Roche said a quick, gruff, “Very well, then.”

He waited until Roche was out of earshot and then looked at Caelibo, raising an eyebrow. “You said Ves and the others, they were sustaining you. What’re you gonna do? Lure more people here?” He didn’t necessarily object to the types of monstrous people she kept in the ruins, the abusers and rapists, to draw from. But the ones like Ves, the victims: while Geralt couldn’t fault the desire to save them from pain, it changed them so drastically. 

“It’s what I do,” Caelibo acknowledged. “I need to feed.”

“What about sex?” Geralt asked. “You said before that sexual energy is the strongest. Could sustain you for a while, I imagine.”

“Yes, it could. But I told you, Witcher,” she spat. “I don’t do that. The idea of using my power to draw someone to me is an anathema to my very being.”

Geralt stayed calm in the face of her ire. Spots of color turned her cheeks nearly purple, her ears went flat against her skull and her pointed fangs were bared. He spread his hands, palms out. “Not what I meant. Not asking about using your powers to coerce men into bed with you. I mean, what about sex freely offered?”

Her upper lip came down, and her ears flicked back up. For a moment appeared that the idea intrigued her, but then she scoffed noisily. “There are no others of my kind, Witcher. And finding a human man…” she trailed off with a bitter laugh.

“What about a Witcher?”

Caelibo laughed again, though this time it was loud and sounded genuinely amused. “You’ve got nerve, Geralt of Rivia. I’ll give you that.”

“Not kidding.”

Eyes narrowing again, she looked him up and down. “Why do you say this?

“Seems like a win-win. You get to feed. _Really_ feed. Maybe you don’t need to draw so much sustenance from people like Maisey or Ves.”

“I noticed you say nothing of the others.”

Geralt shrugged. “Not really seeing the downside to that.” Maybe it wasn’t her place to pass judgement, but it wasn’t Geralt’s either. He had no qualms about the fate that awaited Urich and his cronies.

“You’re not like other Witcher’s I’ve met, Geralt.” She wagged a finger at him. “And I noticed you said nothing of what you get out of this, either.”

Quirking the corner of his mouth into a grin, Geralt simply said, “Thought that was obvious.”

She eyed him like she didn’t quite believe him, but there was definite interest there as well.

Before she could say anything else, Roche returned, towing Ves after him. “Geralt!” she cried out happily when she spotted him. “There you are. Roche told me he found you, but I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

He nodded at her, then looked at Roche. “The men, Vernon?”

Roche shook his head. It wasn’t hard to interpret the meaning of that. If Roche understood the reason those men were there, the reason Caelibo left them to waste away overwhelmed by avarice, he wasn’t likely to fight too hard to rescue them.

“Oh!” Ves exclaimed, pushing past Roche and into the room. “You!” She pointed at Caelibo. “I know you.”

Caelibo smiled fondly and she inclined her head. “Indeed, you do.”

“Ves,” Roche said carefully. “Do you remember her? What she did?”

Ves studied Caelibo a long moment. “I… think so. She helped take away my pain.”

“We’d like her to fix it,” Roche went on. “Taking your pain meant hiding some of your memories from you. But, I think you need to make that choice for yourself, Ves. Whether you want those memories or not. It’s up to you.”

Ves stood quiet a long moment, thoughts clearly warring on her face and her eyes flicked from Roche to Caelibo and back again.

“I don’t like knowing there’s things I can’t remember,” Ves agreed eventually, though she sounded uncertain of her own feelings. “I think I need to have them. My memories. I think I need to know what I’ve forgotten.” She looked to Roche who nodded encouragingly at her. “Yes. I need to know what those memories are before I can decide if I want them or not. Please, let me remember.”

“You heard her,” Roche snapped.

Caelibo closed her eyes, and on an exhale, seemed to breathe out a melodic string of sounds that weren’t quite words. When she opened her eyes again, it was to look at Ves expectantly.

“I’ve done what you asked.”

Both Geralt and Roche stared at Ves as well. She blinked, and frowned and then her eyes squeezed shut and she let out a hoarse gasp. Almost immediately after, her hand shot up, halting both Geralt and Roche who’d started towards her.

“Ves?” Roche asked gingerly after a few minutes had passed and she still stood silent, her eyes shut tight and lips pressed into a hard line.

“I’m fine, Roche,” she said after a long pause.

When she opened her eyes, they were red and her lashes clumped in damp spikes, but not a tear had made its way past that fierce barrier. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

“You don’t have keep them, Ves,” Roche offered. “It was selfish of me to want your memories returned to you.”

“No,” she shook her head curtly. “No, I need them. They make me who I am.” She turned to Caelibo then. “I appreciate what you did for me, I truly do. But I need to remember all of who I am and why.”

Caelibo inclined her head gravely. “Should you ever change your mind…” she left the offer hanging.

Ves almost smiled at that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Vernon,” Geralt said quietly. “Why don’t you take Ves back to the encampment?”

Roche looked like he wanted nothing more than to get her out of there, but he hesitated. “What of you, Geralt? I’m loathe to leave you here…” he trailed off, and couldn’t seem to look directly at Caelibo. Not that Geralt could blame him. She’d revealed something about him that he knew neither of them would be able to forget.

Cupping a hand over Roche’s shoulder a moment, Geralt gave Roche a bit of a shake. “I’ll be fine. Caelibo and I just have some things to discuss. You need to look after Ves.” He pushed lightly at Roche’s arm.

Though he sighed, and grumbled about it under his breath, Roche finally agreed. “You’re right. But be careful Geralt.”

“Same to you, Vernon.” He looked to Ves. “Keep an eye on him?”

Another of those barely-there smiles ghosted across Ves’ lips. “Always, Geralt. And you watch out for yourself, right?”

“Always,” Geralt parroted and Ves rolled her eyes.

When they left the room, Geralt watched after them for a few moments – until they’d stepped beyond the far egress and disappeared from sight. He turned back to Caelibo then. “Know it may not seem like it, but that was the right thing to do.”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “Perhaps one day she’ll come back. Who’s to know.” Caelibo stood and crossed over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it. Backed by flickering candlelight, the diaphanous sage silk of her gown seemed to glow, and it framed her body invitingly.

“Back to our earlier conversation?” Geralt asked.

“And which conversation was that, Witcher? The one where you were trying to convince me that you were interested in sleeping with me?”

“Not doing a very good job, apparently,” Geralt said ruefully.

Caelibo sighed, wearily. “Fine. As you’ve denied me sustenance, and I can tell that your offer is genuine…” she let the thought trail off.

“For someone who devours a gourmet meal during sex, you really don’t seem all that enthused.”

“It’s not the sex,” she told him. “It’s… well. The nature of it, really.” She shifted on the bed, reclining against a large, decorative headboard made of tooled iron and dark slats of wood. “All right,” she said, settling against a pile of pillows, “who would you have me be?”

“Not sure I understand?”

“This,” Caelibo said, and suddenly it was Yennefer in the bed, rolling her eyes at him. “Or this?” Kiera Metz took the place of Yennefer. “Goodness, there are a plethora of strong feelings associated with each of these women! How about this one then?” Shani beckoned him playfully to the bed. When he didn’t react, it was Triss making the same gesture.

“Or perhaps there’s something else I didn’t realize?” she suggested, and Vernon stared back at him. One eyebrow lifted as ‘he’ studied Geralt with a predatory gaze, like a hawk surveying the landscape for the slightest hint of movement. “No?” Caelibo-as-Roche continued when Geralt didn’t rise to the bait. “Another familiar face then?”

Geralt shook his head, though wasn’t entirely surprised when she shifted into Ves. “I know it’s happened. I can reach that much in her thoughts. She thinks on it sometimes still. Quite fondly. Care for a repeat?”

“Gonna stop this now?” Geralt asked after she transitioned through a handful of other women and fewer but still a few men (and he was _never_ going to be able to look at Dandelion the same way again).

Geralt crossed the room and stopped next to the bed. He placed a hand on a thick down duvet next to her currently-human knee. “Don’t want any of that. I’m not after a replacement or a substitute. C’mon,” he prodded. “Shift back.”

“Back? To what form?”

“Natural one, of course.”

Though her expression (well, Anna Henrietta of Toussaint’s expression) went dubious, she finally shifted back to herself. “There.”

“There,” Geralt agreed. “Like that one best.”

Caelibo trilled out a high laugh. “I’ll say this much, Geralt, you certainly are refreshing.”

After carefully removing and laying down his weapons, Geralt worked at the fastenings on his gambeson. “Aiming to be delicious, but refreshing’s a good start.”

That purring, lilting laughter filled the room and all the noises that came after were no less delighted.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It was two days later that Geralt rode into the town of Arette. He tied Roach to a post, admonishing the mare to stay put since he wouldn’t be long, and then entered the Inn. The barman recognized him, giving him a nod. “Pint of Redanian?”

“Not today, thanks. Here on business.” Geralt told him. He looked around and spotted Harreth at the far end of the long room. He was seated at a table with the same three men who he’d come into the tavern with a few days prior. Though, as Geralt watched, the three men were laughing amongst themselves, while Harreth sat somewhat apart, silently nursing a mug.

Changing his mind – as he’d originally been planning on waving Harreth to join him at the small table where they’d met up previously – Geralt strode over to the men. Harreth spotted him and perked up immediately. “Geralt!”

Geralt nodded. “Harreth.”

“This is the Witcher,” Harreth said, gesturing at him for the benefit of the others. “Have you news? Of the creature that’s bewitched my sister?”

It was obvious that the other men were hanging on Geralt’s reply, and he knew they were just waiting for him to deny Harreth, so they could mock and deride him further. “Took care of it,” He stated simply.  “Urich’s dead though.” Which was an exaggeration, but it was close enough to the truth.

“But Maisey? She’s all right?”

Geralt nodded. “She’s fine.”

Harreth beamed. “I cannot thank you enough–”

“Have you any proof?” one of the men at the table broke in to ask. Boldly, Geralt thought.

“You would deny the word of a Witcher?” Harreth turned to him, incredulous.

“Don’t know the fellow, do I?” The man replied, though he seemed a bit unsure of himself after the other two men leaned away from him as if distancing themselves from his foolish bravado.

Geralt ignored the posturing. “Matter of fact,” he told Harreth, “I do.” He fished in one of the many pouches in his belt, and felt around until his fingers curled around a hard, smooth ridge. He drew it out and opened his hand.

A single copper-hued claw lay on the flat of his palm.

Granted, it had been yanked out of one of Caelibo’s paws when she’d rolled rather enthusiastically across the bed and got it caught in a wrought iron curlicue that decorated the footboard.  She’d given quite a yowl when it happened, but afterward, when she’d found the broken claw laying in the tangled sheets, she’d handed it over with a laugh and a comment of, “A souvenir.”

Harreth didn’t need to know how he’d really come by it. Let him think he’d killed some beast.

It had the added bonus of silencing the other men around the table, and they watched in a hush as Harreth gingerly picked up the claw and stared at it.

“One thing,” Geralt cautioned. “You’ll find that Maisey still might be affected. She’d been under its control too long. She’ll be fine, though her memories may always be iffy. Not such a bad thing, though, I’d imagine.”

Another truth he didn’t need to share; Maisey had asked Caelibo to take those memories away. She wanted nothing to do with them. She was truly happy for the first time in her life, and Geralt would ensure she stayed that way.

Harreth’s eyes were actually starting to well up. “How can I ever thank you?”

He got really tired of saying this every time. “Coin’ll do nicely.”

“Right!” Harreth began, eyes widening. “Right, the coin…”

Geralt didn’t quite slap a palm over his brow, but it was a close thing. “Don’t have it, do you?”

Face flushed, Harreth shook his head and cringed. “I uh… well, I gave you all I had saved the other day. But I’m good for it! I promise you that.” He ducked his head. “It um, may just take me some time to gather that much.”

Thinking about delicate fingers, and the playful coils of a prehensile tail, and an invitation to return for a ‘meal’ anytime, Geralt just shook his head. “Be back this way in a few months. I’ll remember your debt,” he promised.

He waved away the offer of a drink – “The least I can do.”  Harreth had said, and Geralt barely refrained from replying, “The least you could do was not pay me, and you’ve covered that.” – and headed for the door. He’d spotted some fresh postings on the notice board when he’d ridden into town. It was early enough he might be able to pick up another contract and make up the coin this one had denied him.

Geralt stepped out of the tavern and into the sunshine. It was promising to be a perfectly warm, lightly breezy spring day. He looked over to the hitching post – the _empty_ hitching post, and then sighed. “Dammit, Roach…”

**Author's Note:**

> Note: No non-con occurs in the story, but there are several references to it.


End file.
